Cuddling the Beast
by Profane Toclafane
Summary: AU, post-End of Time.  The Doctor managed to pull the Master back from the brink of the Time War, and doesn't quite know what to do with him. Gratuitous fluff ensues.


The Master was a deceptively peaceful creature in sleep. Always had been. The moments before the pair of them fell asleep had been some of the Doctor's favorite when they were younger, once his violent counterpart had been exhausted by hours and hours of complex calculations. They'd come in at the end of the day and collapse, frequently in the same bed, and Koschei would be out in an instant, snatching up as much nightmare-free slumber as he could.

Now, the Doctor wasn't so certain about this situation.

Dying in increments was exhausting business. He knew just what it was like, succumbing to the poison seeping slowly through you, though he'd never eaten up his own life-force before – and he suspected that this might be worse. He hadn't really considered the consequences when he'd grabbed the Master by the back of his jumper and pulled him back from the verge of the War, and the reality of his situation was only just now beginning to dawn on him.

For a little while, things had seemed almost normal. The Master was shaken, his palms burnt from the sheer force it'd taken to strike back at Rassilon, but he'd been of sound mind then and had been fit enough to help the Doctor rescue Wilfred from the radiation chamber. After that it began to crumble a bit, but the Doctor had managed to shepherd the Master back to the TARDIS without incident.

Considering recent events, he thoroughly expected a hostile takeover or _something_. Instead, he got a Master who stared at walls and stumbled as though drunk, a Master who couldn't even hang onto his own physical form without a struggle. So many things could have – and probably had – gone wrong with him, from his botched resurrection to the sudden rending of six-billion of his own minds from himself, to the brief glimpse he'd gotten of the Time War. For a few brief seconds he'd have been subjected to the psychic screams of a dying planet, and that wasn't an easy thing to bear.

That wasn't even counting the drums, which still beat just as loudly against his brain.

The Doctor had decided that the best thing for him would be a long, deep, restful sleep. It worked for difficult regenerations, so perhaps it'd give his neurons an opportunity to patch back together. Besides, he was easier to keep track of in sleep than he was awake, and the Doctor still wasn't sure that this wasn't some kind of plan to disarm him.

He'd instructed the Master to wash up, lingering outside the bathroom to be sure he didn't drown; though he, too, could've used a shower, he didn't want to leave his guest unsupervised for so long. Once the Master was cleaned up and dried off (with the aid of several large towels), the Doctor had dug up an old pair of Four's pajamas and helped the Master into them, marveling again at how startlingly _small_ he was. Fully clothed and in charge of himself, the Master's own ego made him seem larger than life. This defenseless, fragile shell was disturbing in how _unlike_ him it was.

Though the TARDIS had rarely-used and relatively comfortable holding cells, the Doctor wasn't willing to risk the Master's health by locking him away. He'd need to be observed and cared for at least until he was back on his feet – at this stage, he could very well die without regenerating, and that didn't bear thinking about. The Doctor had never seen a death like this up-close, and the speed with which the Master was consuming his own life-force was frightening.

So, instead of doing the logical thing and locking him safely away, the Doctor brought his pajama-clad nemesis to his own bedroom and tucked him in at the far edge of his own large bed. He was glad now that he'd upgraded to a king-size – the distance between himself and the Master was nearly wide enough to be a comfort.

Nearly.

As exhausted as he was, the Doctor was far too keyed up to sleep right away. Clad in striped sky-blue pajamas and a fluffy bathrobe, he'd taken up sentry duty on his side of the bed, ready to wait up awake until he was sure the Master was deep asleep. Though the other man lay still beneath a pile of blankets, silent save for the even sounds of his breathing, the Doctor couldn't be sure just yet.

Propped up against a pile of pillows, swathed in blankets and flannel, the Doctor would've felt impossibly cozy if not for his current houseguest. He'd picked up _Watership Down_ to give it another read, taking his time with the book rather than speeding through. Sometimes reading at a human pace was nice, especially when one had hours to kill.

Beside him, the Master slept, his back to the Doctor, limbs curled close to his body. His pale hair was still damp, curling in soft wisps against the nape of his neck as it dried. Flickers of blue-white energy snaked across his skin now and then, the only outward sign of the war raging in each and every one of his cells. In repose he seemed so innocent, so worn and vulnerable, and each time he glanced over at him the Doctor had to remind himself of the monster that lurked beneath that placid expression. It nearly broke his hearts to think of the struggles to come, for whether the Master awoke as himself or returned in a new skin, he'd never submit to such peaceful coexistence. It'd be another struggle for dominance, for mastery, and it could only end with the pair of them apart again, with death and violence.

The Doctor forced his attention back on the book in his lap, determined not to allow his mind to drift to thoughts of the future. In retrospect, this might not have been the best book to choose on this particular occasion – General Woundwort's refusal to see sense always reminded him of the Master, and he came to a rather bad end.

When the Master first began to shift across the bed, he moved so slowly that the Doctor didn't notice it. First, he'd rolled over onto his other side, keeping the sheets bunched up under his chin, faintly furrowed brows and closed eyelids the only things visible beneath his mop of hair. The Doctor stared determinedly at his book, knowing he'd have trouble looking away if he gazed too long at the Master's half-concealed face.

The next time he allowed himself a look, the Doctor was somewhat suspicious – he couldn't quite tell, but it looked as though the Master might've moved towards him by an inch or so. He was still bundled up, no more than a small shape beneath the quilt, but he definitely seemed closer.

The third time he looked, there was no longer any doubt. The Master had inched yet closer to him, and this time the tips of his fingers had curled out from under the edge of the blanket, stretched incrementally towards the other Time Lord.

He must've been moving in his sleep. The Master would never knowingly scoot _closer _to the Doctor.

Yet, scoot he did – in inches, apparently without moving most of his limbs, until he'd covered the vast width of the bed and come to rest nearly up against the Doctor's leg. The Doctor had remained right where he was, reading his book with a trace of desperation, extremely aware of the last time the Master had been this close and this compliant.

It'd been a very, very long time.

At last the Master curled right up against him, tucking a hand around his leg and resting his cheek against the Doctor's thigh. He looked up at him from one slitted eye, then turned his face away and let his lids drop again, heaving a long, satisfied sigh.

"We're not going to talk about this," he murmured.

Flummoxed, the Doctor set his book aside and took off his reading glasses. "But-"

"Shut up," the Master interrupted. "Just shut up and get down here with me. I'm cold."

The Doctor realized he was gaping, shut his mouth with a snap, then very shuffled down under the sheets. The Master moved to lay his cheek against his chest, an arm and a leg thrown over him, curling his thin body in the crook of the Doctor's arm like he'd always belonged there.

Confused and startled though he was, the Doctor couldn't deny how _good_ it felt to hold the Master like this. He pulled him closer, tucking long arms around him and resting his chin against his hair, skin prickling at the faint traces of electricity infusing the other Time Lord's anatomy. "Alright. We won't talk about this," he agreed, the corners of his lips twitching into a smile. "But you've got to promise not to try and kill me in the morning."

"I'll think about it," the Master replied, muffled against the Doctor's neck. "Stop talking. Let me sleep."

The Doctor did just that. Consequences be damned – for now, he was content to have this moment, to fall asleep listening to the sounds of the Master's steady breathing and the beat of his hearts.


End file.
